A Walk in the Bois
by Riene
Summary: What begins as a pleasant evening out leaves Christine mildly injured. This is the latest in the Night Encounters series, and is another Red Rose "prequel." Please read and review.


**A/N** This short story is also meant as a "prequel" for my _Red Rose_ Phantom novel. Please read and review.

**Summary**—This is part of my series of unrelated vignettes called _Night Encounters_. In this story, what begins as a pleasant evening out leaves Christine mildly injured.  No darkness this time, this is pure, sweet, Erik-and-Christine "phluff."  

This is also the last story for a while, I'm afraid.  The next three are started, but I'm currently afflicted with a severe case of writer's block….

**Disclaimer--**All characters used in the _Night Encounters_ series belong either to Gaston Leroux, Susan Kay, or Andrew Lloyd Webber. In regard to the French language, Paris, history, certain songs, the Opera Charles Garnier—all errors and liberties taken are mine. 

--Riene

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**A Walk in the Bois**

Copyright 2003 by Riene

Her music lesson concluded for the night, Christine wandered quietly over to the hearth, listening as Erik remained at the piano continuing to play for her, knowing how she liked this few minutes of peace before returning to the quiet flat in which she lived.  He was playing Schubert tonight, she thought.  Christine watched his agile hands touching the keys, idly noting how the gleaming black and white of the piano matched his stark evening apparel, his dark hair, the white porcelain mask.  With Erik, there were never colors or shades, simply this austere, controlled, stoic demeanor.

Only the masked side of his face was visible from where she sat, revealing no emotion or expression.  The music tonight was soothing, with a melancholy undertone.  At the risk of interrupting him, she asked quietly, "What are you playing tonight, Erik?  It sounds familiar, like Schubert."

Without interrupting the smooth flow of melody, he answered absently.  "It is.  The Symphony No. 4, in C minor.  Second movement."

Having placed the music, she frowned slightly.  "I thought that wasn't written for piano—that it was an orchestral work."

Again he nodded.  "Yes.  I arranged it for solo piano."

She did not disturb him again until the piece was finished, relaxing in this calm interlude before returning to the world above.  The underground house exuded peace tonight, no dark images to disturb her silent reverie, her enjoyment of the music.  Erik remained at the piano after the conclusion of the composition, listening as the final lingering notes died away, watching the slim figure of the young woman by the fire, the curve of her smooth cheek, the fire-burnished shining brown curls.  With a sigh he rose from the piano bench, prepared to escort Christine back to the upper levels of the Opera, but she made no move to leave.

"My dear?" he questioned softly, wondering if she had any comprehension of the depth of emotion with which he longed to infuse that casual expression of endearment.

Christine looked up and gave him a hesitant smile.  "Erik, do you know the big parks here in Paris?  The ones they call the _Bois?" _

He nodded.  "Yes.  There are two of them."  Curious, he waited for her to continue.

Christine risked a glance at him.  Tonight Erik's dark eyes were gentle, with none of the agonizing unvoiced questions, the unspoken longings that so unsettled her thoughts and ideas, confused her perceptions of this enigmatic man.  She took a deep breath.  "I heard Meg and the others talking about them again today.  Apparently, they are quite popular.  I've never been there, though."

_What was she asking?_  He sat down across from her in his own deep armchair, making a pretense of idly watching the flames.  It was the first time since her removal of his mask that she had spoken to him as she had in the days when he remained hidden behind the mirror, before her preconceptions of him had been so abruptly shattered.  Determined to continue this unexpected conversation, he held tightly to restraint and gave her an encouraging look.

 "I was wondering if you might want to go there some time."  She flushed becomingly.  "You needn't do so if you don't want…."  Her voice trailed off uncertainly; as far as she knew, he never left the Opera.

_She wanted to walk with him in the Bois?_  His chest constricted suddenly with bittersweet longing.  They had walked along the banks of the underground lake, and once he had even rowed her in the gondola boat, in an effort to prolong their time together before returning her to the world above.  Though it was not possible to take her about in the unforgiving light of day, it was only natural that she wish to leave the underground house occasionally.  Erik chastised himself for not thinking to take her to the park, to walk about the boulevards of a night-darkened Paris.  Indulgently, he nodded, keeping his voice light.  "If that is your wish, Christine, we will certainly go.  Shall we visit the Bois de Vincennes, or the Bois de Boulogne?" 

Frowning, she appeared to give the matter serious thought.  "The Bois de Vincennes has that pretty lake, the Daumesnil, but the Bois de Boulogne is closer."

"The Bois de Boulogne it is then.  When shall we go?" he said, humoring her.

"Could we go there tonight?"

_Tonight?  He turned to her, surprised.  She had asked for this outing shyly, for whatever her reasons.  Was it possible she was beginning to regain her trust in him?_

Midnight blue eyes met his, shy, pleading.  Suddenly, air seemed in short supply in the library music room.  Erik nodded, unable to speak.

"I don't have rehearsal tomorrow," Christine explained quickly, fearing this silence meant he would deny her request, knowing how strict her teacher was about adequate rest before performance, but then he nodded.

"True," he said musingly.  "I believe my programme is open tonight as well, Christine.  Shall we go walk by the river?"

Her eyes lit with eagerness at his acceptance, then dimmed mournfully.

"I have nothing proper to wear, Erik." 

He raised an eyebrow.  "But of course you do."

Flushing, she rose and walked quickly to her bedroom, to search through the mahogany armoire.  There, toward the back, was an outdoor walking dress of a soft dove gray, the skirt slightly more loose that she could move freely.  Below sat a dainty pair of low-heeled, fur trimmed boots.  Delighted, Christine pulled them out, stroking their buttery soft black leather.  They were, of course, precisely her size.

Refusing to consider the implications of exactly how Erik always knew the style and fit of her clothing, Christine dressed quickly and braided her long loose curls into a club, tucking pins into it carefully to secure it low on her neck.  Catching up her new blue cloak, Christine walked back out to the foyer of the underground house.

He was waiting for her by the vestibule door, wearing his usual formal attire, his cloak over one arm and his wide-brimmed hat in hand.  She stopped.  "Erik?  Are you not going to change?" 

Deliberately misunderstanding, he inclined his head in her direction with a puzzled air.  "Change into what?"

Startled, Christine looked up and met with his gently teasing eyes and then smiled.  "Outdoor clothing," she scolded.

Pleased he had made her smile, Erik shook his head.  "I have few other clothes, Christine.  I have little need of outdoor apparel, as I go on so few safaris."

She smiled openly then, ducking her head, unused to this gentle bantering tone from her stern Angel of Music, and walked past him out the door.

They had been silent on the drive over, each lost in thought.  Erik tapped on the roof, signaling the driver to stop, then stepped out into the darkness of the entrance of the Bois de Boulogne, at the Porte Maillot entrance.  He waited by the carriage, fleetingly debating whether to offer his hand to help her disembark, but instead merely held the door open for her.  He feared she would rather stumble down from the carriage than to touch his cold hands, and Erik had no wish to disturb the hushed magic of this evening.

Now here they were here, walking through the soft lapis air along the sinuous, winding paths that meandered through the great park.  The wooded commons looked so different at night, no happy running children, no skaters with bodies pressed together as couples glided by as one, no courting young men and women, no families enjoying the increasingly rare bit of greenery in a Paris long-succumbed to industry.  It was only the two of them, alone together.

Christine stole a glance at him, wondering, as they passed the entrances of the Jardin d'Acclimamation.  He would never see this park by day; never enjoy the freedom to raise his face to the sun.  She could not tell, looking into that impassive face, whether he regretted whatever choices had caused him to live deep under the Opera, alone.

Erik returned her pensive glance but did not allow their eyes to meet, afraid she would see the bittersweet yearning that burned in their depths.  Though he longed to place a careful hand on her elbow, a supportive guide along the rough paths by the lake, he did not dare.  He laced his fingers tightly together, arms behind his back, lest the temptation grow too strong.

They walked in silence along the path toward the river, listening to the nightbirds calling.  Trees arched their lacy, nearly bare branches overhead, forming a cathedral-like pathway to the river. They stopped often, Erik waiting patiently as she touched the feathery-soft drooping limbs of the cypress trees, or cupped the sleepy blossoms of autumn flowers in her small white hands, bending over to inhale their scents.  She moved with an unconscious grace, a legacy from her years in the _ballet corps_, and he allowed his eyes to rest on her with pleasure.

A slight breeze came up, blowing ripples across the lake and setting the branches swaying.  Shivering, she pulled the edges of her blue cloak more tightly about her shoulders, and in doing so, did not see the exposed tree root in her path.  Christine stumbled, falling abruptly off balance, twisting her right ankle.  Erik reacted with incredible reflex, catching her immediately in his strong arms, holding her in safety while she regained her balance.  As soon as he was certain she was no longer in danger, he immediately released her, keeping his face carefully impersonal.

Christine's expression contorted with surprise and unwelcome pain and she reached helplessly toward him.  "Erik, I think I've hurt my ankle," she whispered.

Painfully conscious of contact with her flesh, he was reluctant to touch her again, but Christine bit her lower lip in pain, and her wide blue eyes shimmered with tears.  Carefully, he swept her up in his swift, powerful arms, feeling her stiffen instinctively against him.

"I am only taking you to the park bench," he endeavored to soothe her upturned, frightened face.  As gently as possible, he placed her on the seat and knelt before her, pulling her small booted foot into his hands.  Erik loosened the laces of the walking boot, slipping the fur-trimmed boot from her throbbing ankle, taking her bare foot hesitantly into his broad hands.  Christine flinched with pain as his long fingers cautiously probed her rapidly swelling joint.

With a frown Erik gently inserted her dainty foot back into the boot and re-laced it loosely.  "It will help support your ankle, Christine, on the journey home."  He looked away, oddly hesitant, and she sensed he was steeling himself.  "I will need to carry you, Christine; I do not think you should even try to walk."  

Nodding numbly, she waited, holding her breath as he sat beside her on the bench and drew her into his lap, his careful touch respectful, turning her so that she faced the unmasked side of his face.  Erik settled her into his strong arms, against his warm body, and with a gracefully fluid movement stood, bearing her weight as though it were of no account.  He looked around once, seeking to note if they had left anything behind, then began striding down the tree lined dirt path toward the gates.  He held her firmly in his arms, his broad chest hard with muscle.  Turning slightly, Christine relaxed against him, leaning her cheek against the soft wool of his suit, listening to the slightly accelerated beating of his heart.  He smelled of clean spicy herbal soap, of wood smoke, and incense. For a moment Erik's footsteps faltered at her sudden trust, then he shifted her slightly in his arms, cradling her against him, as tender as a father with a beloved child.

They hailed a hansom cab and he gently placed her on the cushions inside it, calling to the driver to take them to the Opera House.  At this late hour, no one saw him bring her in through the Rue Scribe entrance.  Christine marveled at the powerful strength of his arms, for he lowered her to the ground only twice, when he had to work the locks of the portcullis gate, and then the mechanisms of his hidden doorway.  

Inside the house, Erik turned sideways, stepping through the doorway of the Louis-Philippe room, then lowered her to the sleigh bed, kneeling before her and carefully removing her boot.  She bit back a cry and he flinched.  "I am so sorry, Christine," he whispered, and she realized he was berating himself for her injury.            

Without thought, she leaned forward suddenly and touched his shoulder.  "Don't be, Erik, it was my carelessness that caused this injury, not anything you did," she hastened to reassure him.  "I'm only sorry I spoiled our outing."

Wordlessly, he nodded at her, then slipped from her room, returning with a bowl of water.  Gently, he eased her aching limb into the icy liquid and she gasped.  "The cold will draw down the swelling," he explained and she nodded.    

"I know that; it's just that it's so cold," she whispered, grimacing.  He rose and walked soundlessly to her wardrobe, returning with a soft paisley shawl, spun of woven cashmere wool, and draped it cautiously around her shoulders.  Grateful for its warmth, she drew it closer and smiled her thanks.

Erik caught his breath.  _She was so good, so gentle and forgiving…_  He knelt before her again, letting his fingers gingerly test the swelling of her ankle, probing the tender joint.  He glanced up to find her wide blue eyes looking anxiously down into his.

"Is it…?"

"Broken?" he finished for her.  "No, my angel, it is only a bad wrench.  I will strap it up for you, and by morning we will see how it feels."  He gently replaced her foot in the ice bath and departed, returning a minute later with a long roll of worn linen cloth that he proceeded to tear into strips of bandaging.  Erik raised her foot from the basin, drying it carefully with a soft towel he had fetched from her bath chamber, his evident concern bringing a swift rush of tears to Christine's eyes.  He took such good care of her, his actions calm and unhurried, only his dark eyes betraying his concern for her well being.  She looked away, unable to bear such tenderness.

His movements economical and precise, Erik braced her small foot in his hand, and began dexterously winding the soft linen strips around her limb.  As she watched the graceful ease by which he bound her painful, swollen ankle, a thought occurred to her, one that might help explain the mystery of his shadowed past, a past he never willingly spoke of, and she asked it musingly.

"Erik, were you ever a physician?  You seem to know what you are doing."

He looked up at her then, a swift shadow of pain crossing his dark eyes.  "No, Christine," he answered quietly.  "I was once an architect, but I have treated many injuries in my time, my own and those of others."  He completed the bandaging, tucking the stray ends of fabric under, much in the same way she had once tucked in the trailing ribbon edges of her dancing slippers.  She smiled and made as if to rise.  Erik caught her in his arms immediately and replaced her on the ivory coverlet, then retreated to the end of the bed.

"No," he said sternly.  "You must not put any weight on your foot until it heals."

She looked at him in dismay.  "Then how am I to wash and prepare for bed?"

His hand tightened involuntarily on the back of the mahogany footboard.  "I will carry you, wherever you need to go, Christine.  You may trust me."  

She bit her lower lip, and then nodded slowly.  It was one thing to allow him to hold her in the gardens, where there was no other choice, but here in the intimacy of her bedroom it was quite another matter altogether.

Erik lifted the carved chair from her writing desk and took it to the bath chamber, setting it near the marble basin, then placed the things she would need nearby.  Moving across the carpet to her dresser, he stood hesitant.  He had not seen or touched these items since acquiring them for her weeks ago.  To do so now seemed an unforgivable invasion of her privacy.  

Christine, watching him, suddenly understood the reason for his awkward pause.  Blushing, she smiled faintly and sought to relieve the tension of the moment.  "Erik, would you please bring me a fresh night dress?  They are in the second drawer down."  Silently, he removed one of her nightgowns, a soft pale blue brushed cotton with ribbon inserts, and then extracted clean undergarments to go with it.  Not meeting her eyes, he placed the items in her bathroom, feeling a dull flush across his cheekbones.

Forcing an iron control on his suddenly disobedient body, Erik lifted her once again in his arms and carried her carefully to the bathroom, lowering her to stand by the chair.  "I shall be outside.  Call when you need me," he said in a voice hoarse with tension, then whirled and retreated from her chamber.

Christine placed her right knee on the seat of the chair and stood on her other foot, so that she might quickly wash and change clothing.  She removed the pins from her hair and brushed it out into a cloud of loose shining brown curls, thinking.  

She had not always known he desired her, for Erik was usually much more skillful at hiding his feelings.  He often looked at her with affection, even love, but she had thought it the love of a proud teacher for his prized pupil, or that of a father for a beloved child.  Only recently had she seen that dark, unreadable look in his eyes, a powerful gaze of raw emotion, a look that caused him to clench his fist and turn away, least she be alarmed by what she read in his countenance.

Christine shivered, a _frisson borne of innocence and inexperience.  Raoul had never looked at her like that, she was certain.  He was respectful of her at all times, his touch not causing this tremulous, unsettled feeling within her soul.  She rubbed her hands up and down her arms, but pushed away the unsettling thought.  It was unfair to compare them; they were as night and day.  _

Lowering her hairbrush, she called his name.  After a moment, Erik entered the bath chamber, his eyes carefully averted from her face.  He lifted her easily, holding her away from him, and gently lowered her to the turned down bed.  In silence he stepped back into the bath chamber, quickly tidying the small room, and replacing the chair by her desk.  He then walked back to her bedside and looked down at where she waited, his expression unreadable.  "Might I bring you a book, or your rosary, or anything else before you sleep?"

Christine shook her head.  "No, I think I'll just rest."  She drew the smooth linen sheets up over her breasts, painfully conscious of her thin nightgown and of his overwhelming masculine presence.  He nodded, then walked to her wardrobe again, returning with a pillow for her to rest her ankle on, loosening the covers of the lower bed, that they might not press so heavily on the injury.

Erik walked toward the door, resisting the urge to linger, but her sweet shy voice called after him.

"Erik, thank you…for taking care of me tonight."  She made a self-deprecating little face.  "I'm sorry I spoiled our evening."

He was at her side in an instant, lowering himself to the bedside chair, that he might not tower over her, his dark eyes warm and kind.  "It is of no consequence," he said softly.  "When you are quite recovered, we will go again."  Erik hesitated, then reached toward her face, his fingers brushing her cheek with a light, almost fearful touch.  "Goodnight, my angel.  Rest well.  If the ankle still hurts you in the morning, I will bring you a tisane for the swelling and pain."

She nodded and he rose soundlessly, walking around her room to turn out the gaslights.  At her doorway, he paused.  "Call out to me, should you need anything in the night.  I will not fail to come to you."  _Ever._

"Goodnight, Erik," she whispered, and he was gone.

Please review, and let me know if you liked it!  Thanks for reading!


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